


This Must Be the Place

by cosmisce



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmisce/pseuds/cosmisce
Summary: Roy fastens the last buttons of his shirt, steps into his pants, tightens his belt. A routine she has seen him complete each morning. These brief, nameless moments which she keeps close.After the war, Roy and Riza prepare to meet Ed's second child.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	This Must Be the Place

“Don’t be late, Roy,” she warns, the name feeling worn on her tongue. It has only been two months since she had excavated it from her memory, returned to it among the roses he now brought her at the office. He groans from his place at the sink, shaving cream luminous on his cheeks. 

If his face is more lined since the Promised Day, or his eyes red-rimmed and misty, she doesn’t notice. A blue towel rests against his shoulders, the droplets of water on his abdomen remaining untouched. Beginning at his right waist and extending upwards is a large patch of ruined skin, a dead violet-red though it remained delicate to touch. 

The two would be spending the holidays at the Elric’s house in Risembool, meeting Edward’s second child for the first time. It would also be a celebration of the fifth anniversary of the homunculi’s destruction, as Alphonse would be departing before the New Year for a prolonged study of medicinal alchemy.

Scar would be coming, as would Dr. Marcoh and the remainder of Mustang’s unit, the people whom they saw routinely at the office. It has only been two hours ago since Havoc had knocked on the door of the apartment, frantic as to what suit he should wear and if Edward would disapprove of him enjoying a cigarette in front of the children. She had scolded him for the ash on his breath, mellowing the creases of his suit with careful fingers. 

Now, she and Roy are alone in the apartment they share, full of pictures of those whom they love and those whom they miss, precious mementos from times they can not return to. Clutter, such as the comb which her golden hair is tangled into, or the coffee mug Roy has overlooked on the kitchen counter. Black Hayate’s toys are scattered on the carpet, gleaming orange against the reach of the fireplace. It is a place she can return to, emptied of its venom. 

She wears a black dress that comes to her knees, its arms hidden by a long gray jacket. Her hair falls loose against her back, pushed back to reveal her earrings. 

“You look nice,” he says, razor stopping against his cheek. It is honest and said without motive, and she reminds herself he has never been romantic, despite his feigned debauchery and charisma. He would charm her, placing an arm on her shoulder as he told her things meant to dazzle, a confident smile and a steady presence. 

She would smile at him and respond. If her voice has been rough since the Promised Day, he doesn’t notice. He is brushing her hair out of her face, setting kisses on her forehead, holding her as if she is precious, as if she holds in herself all Roy wants from life. 

Now the tap is running and he is drying his face, looking for the suit she had set out for him. The train departed five minutes ago but Roy insists on taking his time. He wants to remind Edward of the many times he had arrived late to his meetings for no particular reason, his hands greasy from an early dinner when he entered the Colonel’s office. Now he’s a general, and Edward isn’t an alchemist. 

“Did we buy a gift for the kids?” Roy asks. She nods, holding the gift bags up for him to see. He searches for them, his eyes taking time to focus on the overly saturated wrapping paper. She doesn’t mind waiting for him. He fastens the last buttons of his shirt, steps into his pants, tightens his belt. A routine she has seen him complete each morning. These brief, nameless moments which she keeps close. 

(One time, amidst the war in Ishval, she had asked him, in tears, how he kept on. He told her all his life he has swallowed.)

She borrows these words, in moments of grief, reminds herself she has never seen him cry. Not in the war, not in the endless summers they shared. Not when Hughes died, and all he could yield was misty eyes and a single tear. 

Now he is putting on a coat and interlocking his arm into hers. His hand moves to touch the engagement ring on her finger, and he leans down to kiss her on the lips. Their possessions are fitted into a suitcase, enough to sustain a few nights apart from home. 

The wind is cold against her cheeks, and at the train station Roy stops to purchase two cups of apple cider. The liquid warms the skin on her palms. She has lost everything to be here — sitting by him, the sun reaching, now his face — 

She has wondered for twenty years what expression lay behind his mask. It has now disappeared into the afternoon air, and it is as if she is seeing him for the first time. He blows the steam which rolls off his cup, his eyes staring into the pale liquid as if it were his life and hers, fixed at the finished curl of the foam. The last leaves from autumn are falling into his hair, but he does not notice it in the perfect silence they hold. 

This must be the place, she realizes, she has been searching for all these years. This must be the place.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic a couple years ago, but wanted to publish it here. Enjoy, and comment if you feel so inclined.


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